


Dark and Full of Terrors

by orphan_account



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, More like implied noncon, Torture, blatant game of thrones reference, pitch is really creepy and it kind of freaks me out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortals do not die; they disappear, overtaken by the forces which hold them, and these forces may be malevolent indeed. Set during the film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark and Full of Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to the RotG Kinkmeme.

Contrary to popular belief, they can’t die. Not really. They can vanish, they can fall, they can be reformed. But they can’t really die.

—x—

It is cold. It is dark. That’s what he knows. Cold, but not the bonechilling cold of winter, rather, the cold of emptiness, the cold of deep oceans and black holes and the spaces between the stars. The cold, and the overwhelming dark.

He can’t move. The darkness closes in, drowning the light- his light.

He passes out, then.

—x—  
He’s not sure when he wakes. The world is black, black as tar, and just as thick. He needs not breathe, but all the same, he cannot.

He feels weak, then.

And then comes the laughter.

The laughter is bitter; it is taunting. It is low and ringing in his ears.

“How does it feel?” the voice asks. “How does it feel to fall prey to the dark?”

He feels the dark pressing in on him like walls, claustrophobic, like a weighted fist squeezes his entire form-  
and he’s dead, dead to the world.

—x—

When he awakes, he sees the eyes.

He can’t tell the proximity; the darkness is too complete for that. But in the dark, the eyes burn like flames, like little supernovae, their centers joining the dark in their decomposition into black holes.

He cannot look away.

When the eyes come to him, they are silent. They move with no tread, they make no sound, no speech.

And they are upon him.

The light brush of fingertips runs across his cheek, barely touching the skin. The sensation is odd, a tickling sort of itch coupled with the chill of the fingers themselves. The voice behind him chuckles.

Then come the whips.

They follow the fingers, long, thin and gritty, slicing across his cheek where the caress once was. Flesh does not open- flesh cannot open, but it stings and it rubs and the grittiness of the sand whips leaves scratches along with one long line of darkness.

The blackness crackles against his skin, but fades.

The voice growls.

He realizes, then, that he cannot move. He had a vague awareness of it previously, but now it dawns consciously. And the reason dawns as well- he is trapped. Trapped in a cocoon of darkness and lead and black sand with only his head emerging from the hardened, almost rocky formation.

The hands caress him again, and the eyes are close, too close, filling his world with silver and gold and blackblackblackblack-

The voice tsks, and the eyes move as to suggest a shaking head.

He feels the finger move around, then under his lip, then on under his chin in a snaking motion. The finger pushes his chin up, and he braces for the whip.

The voice just chuckles and disappears.

—x—

He does not feel the fingers when the presence in the darkness returns.

He feels teeth.

There is breath at his ear, and he smells it in the nothingness, a whispering scent of sweetness and rot. The teeth at the shell are jagged and uneven and digging into his skin possessively.

The voice’s laugh is dark and low and quiet.

Then comes the wetness, the feeling of slime around the shell of his ear as the teeth let up, sliding down further, further until it trails down his neck, leaving in its wake a trail of saliva and the feeling of a phantom tongue. A hand grabs his chin, wrenching it to the side, baring his neck further.

The teeth sink into the newly bared flesh, and he screams silently.

The mouth continues, leaving spidery patches of black when it moves onto a new bit of skin, biting harder as it travels up again, the hand’s nails digging into his chin. The voice’s breath is heavy. The eyes look up at him, lidded, glowing with self-satisfaction.

And it is not the cold that burns, not the bites that hurt. It is the skin, the slow turning of the flesh, the poisonous marks sinking deeper until they consume gold and cover his neck entirely.

And the voice-

The voice, it purrs.

—x—

When the eyes return, they are not filled with the same glow he last saw them in. This glow is cold, murderous rather than lustful.

He does not notice that the prison has crept up his neck until the hands grip his cheeks, snapping his neck upward.  
In the faint light from the eyes, he almost, almost sees the face.

But he feels the nails dig into his skin, the spreading blackness from where the grey meets gold, the searing as his skin changes-  
But the fingers do not stay, and his face does not turn completely, merely discolors for a few moments as the nails rake across his face. The voice’s breath is shaky, and he can hear teeth grit against each other.

“I want no harm to come to you,” the voice hisses, hands leaving finally. “Nothing too severe, not yet. I want them to see you when I strike the final blow. I want to see the look on your precious Guardians’ faces when I make you mine, pet. I want them to watch as their powers slowly drain, watch as I make you my own little… _me._ ”

There’s a caress under his chin before the whip hits.

“But for now, who is to say I can’t enjoy these small victories?” The voice is smooth, a hint of an audible smirk laced within it. “Nothing too permanent. Nothing too long, not with so much work to be done. But, no, I have what I want.” And the face is close to his, he can feel the proximity, the half-open eyes staring straight into his, and he feels the words breathed against his lips.  
“ _For now._ ”

He is left alone then, with only pain.

—x—

The blackness is creeping towards his face, tendrils of the dark inching closer and closer. Each time he struggles, the whips lash at his face. When he does not, the prison tightens.

The eyes do not return for a while. And there is a part of him- a small part, true, but a part nonetheless- that wishes they would return. For the eyes meant reprieve, if only a little, the eyes meant companionship and light.

It’s a bitter, bitter irony, considering who the eyes belong to.

And while nerves are set aflame by the blackness, while the air is filled with his silent screams and dry tears, he sits, and he thinks, and he wills himself away.

—x—

He does not see the eyes when they return, but he feels the hands as he wakes; chilled, slender things, snaking through the sandy prison, pressing against his already blackened stomach and chest in a cruel mockery of an embrace. They soothe the burning, but they speed the creeping darkness on his cheeks.

The teeth are near his ear, but they do not nip, they merely stay, the breath a shock of cold, the noise a low chuckle.

“Would you like to know what it is? The black sand?”

The voice does not wait for an answer.

“Onyx,” it replies, and while the mouth stays on one side of his head, the voice whispers into the other, “Obsidian. Granite. Pumice. Basalt. Shungite. Hematite. Oh, and of course.” There is a pause, and he feels the thin lips twist into a smile. _“Lead.”_

Lead. That explained it all. Lead.

“Oh, don’t seem so surprised. It was really rather predictable. Much is, if you have the eyes to see it.”

The voice hums as it travels, and though the body never moves, the voice reverberates, bouncing from place to place.

“But even if you see now, you won’t be able to tell anyone, will you, pet?”

—x—

The last time he sees the eyes is the time he wants to forget.

The last time he sees the eyes, they are cold and wide and lustful, and the teeth accompany them in a wicked smile.

The last time he sees the eyes, the blackness overtakes him, leaving only the top half of his face.

But the last time he sees the eyes, he is taken in other ways.

—x—

It is dark, and it is cold. That’s what he knows. Cold, but not the bonechilling cold of winter, rather, the cold of emptiness, the cold of deep oceans and black holes and the spaces between the stars. The cold, and the overwhelming dark.  
He can’t move. The darkness closes in.

And in the distance, there, a tiny flicker of golden. He fears it, fears the eyes, the actions the eyes took against him last they met. The fear sparks the sand more, causing it to stir and harden.  
But the light looms closer.

The light, like a little lost moonbeam, wanders ever closer, creeping towards the trapped figure until it touches him, very briefly. But the touch is all it needs.

The blackness explodes, then, and he can feel it powering him, just as he can feel the pang in the Nightmare King’s cold heart as he breaks free.

He steps into the light, away from the coldness and darkness and pain and hate.

He steps into the light, for the night is dark, and full of terrors.


End file.
